Free Shanakan (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 1) by Tim Stead

shouting came to them from the far side of the village. There was another sound that they hadn’t heard for a long time; hoof beats.
    They ran through the village and arrived in time to see a group of five horsemen ride up. They were rough looking, streaked with dust and sweat, but all of them carried swords and wore mail of some description. They looked hard and arrogant. One of them pushed his horse aggressively forward towards the swelling crowd of villagers, and they drew back. He looked little different from the others, but that his face was scarred on the left side, and he had the clear blue eyes and long dirty blond hair common among northerners.
    “Your village,” the bandit announced, “is now part of the domain of General Bragga. We will return in autumn and collect half of your harvest. If you attempt to resist, every third man will be killed.”
    “Who is general Bragga?” a man asked.
    The bandit spurred his horse forward again and kicked the man to the ground.
    “Your lord, you dirt-eating scum,” he said, and drew his sword, waving it at the crowd. “Your lives will be forfeit if you rebel.”
    Delf thought he was overstating it a bit. One horseman in a crowd of nearly two hundred people could not be so sure of himself, even if he had four friends behind him. The man was not confident. Delf could see the way that his eyes darted about the growing crowd, the way that he gripped his reins a little too firmly.
    “Does Gerique know?” It was Tarbo. Delf moved up beside his friend to be ready to help.
    “Who said that?” the bandit demanded. At least a couple of the horsemen looked uneasy at the mention of the name. One of them even looked over his shoulder as if he expected the Faer Karani to rise from the ground at the sound of his name.
    “I did. The earth itself knows that I have no love for the Faer Karan, but Gerique may take exception to your lordships’ claim. He, too, claims these lands.”
    “You are a foolish old man,” the bandit said. “The Faer Karan are not interested in you. They hide in their castles and play games with their toy soldiers. It is we that rule out here in the real world.”
    Tarbo shook his head. Delf recognised the gesture. More stupidity, the old farmer was thinking, more thorns to prick us in our hard life. Nothing we can do about it. The bandit saw the gesture, and it seemed to enrage him.
    He spurred his horse forwards and raised his sword to strike as the crowd scattered. Delf had not been expecting this, but ducked low as the horseman closed on Tarbo. He had noticed that the bandits did not wear stirrups, but rode in the northern fashion. As it passed he grabbed the bandit’s foot, nearly wrenching his own arms off at the elbows. It worked. The bandit was ripped from the saddle and crashed awkwardly to the ground behind his startled horse.
    There was a prolonged moment of silence. The man did not rise. Tarbo knelt next to him.
    “His neck is broken,” he said. “He is dead.”
    Wulf picked up the fallen sword. The horse trotted back the way it had come through the scattered villagers and past the other four bandits, who looked very uneasy. Every man, woman and child in the village looked at them. It was a moment that could go either way. Delf picked up a wooden rake that had been dropped in the melee and stepped forward until he was beside Wulf and the two of them stepped slowly towards the horsemen. The villagers were not brave, but moved to fill the space behind them, creating a sense of forward motion. It worked.
    One of the four broke ranks, wheeled his horse around and galloped for the woods. The other three were only a moment behind, and in a very few seconds they were all gone from sight.
    “I expect they’ll be back,” Tarbo said. “With friends.”
    “I didn’t mean to kill him,” Delf objected.
    “No. Not your fault, but we’re going to have to fight them. It won’t be food they’re after when they come again.”
    “We have no weapons.